MindWarped
by dancingknives
Summary: Jean is a good girl sometimes. At least, she remembers that she's a good girl, and nothing more.


The heels are unmistakably Jimmy Choo, with signature florets and cascades dripping from the lower ankle. The long manicured nails drum impatiently against mahogany. The lips wear a berry red line—not of annoyance, of joy, of…anything really. The face is an incorrigible mask, solidified through years of training and discipline. The red plumage falls around her bare shoulders.

He walks in, and immediately captures a mental photograph. He extends his hand; she refuses the cordial gesture and stares, pierces his soul, through titanium Gucci lenses.

"Miss….," he trails off, a lame attempt and she knows it.

"Grey." is the curt reply.

"Ms. Grey," the droning resumes, "I understand why you would be, er, marginally perplexed given the current circumstances, but—"

"Spare me." Her stare doesn't falter. "Call off the units stationed around the Mansion, you have absolutely no right, and trust me, I _know_."

He pales a bit, thinking if he's dealing with some sort of freak mutant who can read minds. She smirks. He stumbles.

"Our first concern, is national security. We've known for awhile of the existence of this, ah, next step on the evolutionary ladder, shall I respectfully note? However, the school has become simply far too hazardous to ignore. Might I raise evidence of the numerous weaponry and surveillance conceilled on campus? It's hard to bypass the idea that you may be preparing for an all out war."

She opens her delicate lips to speak, but he continues.

"While we have witnessed poor relations between differing, er, mutant factions and resulting skirmishes, that serves only to prove you're genetically belligerent nature. And while saving innocents is a gracious act, it also raises many possibilities. We have no way of knowing your true intentions. Perhaps the good deeds are only to lull us into a sense of security? Perhaps warring mutant groups is simply a fraud, again to make _us_ vulnerable? Or perhaps you are all simply nothing more than super-vigilantes? You see, not being, telepathic," he adds scathingly, "we cannot determine truth from lies. It is for this reason that SHIELD has opted to take control of the Mansion."

"This is blackmail," she snarls, "you have no right to invade our home, and how dare you broadcast this throughout the media? You're forcing us to surrender, else the public see us as dangerous and virulent! You hide from them all the incidents where we have saved people—"

"A point that I have already nullified."

She merely glares back.

"I can see you refuse to sway in your judgment, I will simply plea our case elsewhere."

"Ms. Grey," he smiles, "I'm afraid I cannot allow you to do so, you see—"

She silences him with a look, she mind-locks him.

"Don't say another word."

All he hears is the sound of her heels clicking on the marble floors as she stalks down the hallway.

Jean pauses before the elevator, and quickly mind-scans the building, which, to her discovery, is surprisingly vacant on a Thursday morning. She grins for a bit, Scott wouldn't like it at all, and the Professor, well, she'd deal with that somehow. Jean expands her mind to encompass the neighboring blocks, and she quickly clears the building with her telepathy.

And the fun begins.

She directs a potted plant in a corner to smash against a well-organized desk. The secretary would be pissed, she thinks. Her arms raised, and all objects whirl in a tornado around her; her hair stands completely vertical, and her eyes flash golden. The objects spin out in a melee of crashes and burns; in mere moments the entire foyer of the 11th floor of the Trescon Building is decimated.

Phoenix erupts in a blaze and flies clear through the glass. She points, and the building—crumbles. Her Dolce & Gabbana outfit is ripped by a firestorm of debris. Her eyes flash again, and she destroys the entire block, effortlessly ripping compounds apart, breaking molecular bonds, fundamentally changing atomic structure. Another few seconds and a two-mile radius is utterly reduced to nothingness. No damage remains, everything just…is _not_. Picture central downtown, with all the skyscrapers and surrounding area. Then in moments, a few blocks just disappear, along with everything. There's only the plain earth—no fire, no rubble, no people. A lone figure hovers above the damage. Her eyes flash, and everyone instantly remembers nothing.

The Phoenix smiles.

Hours later, Jean won't recall a thing.


End file.
